Dayspring
by Pontmercesque
Summary: Logic is thrown out the window. Combeferre has a conversation with a dead man.


_Surely also, in some place not of honour, stands or sprawls up querulous, that he too, though short, may see,—one squalidest bleared mortal, redolent of soot and horse-drugs: Jean Paul Marat of Neuchatel! O Marat, Renovator of Human Science, Lecturer on Optics; O thou remarkablest Horseleech, once in D'Artois' Stables,—as thy bleared soul looks forth, through thy bleared, dull-acrid, wo-stricken face, what sees it in all this? Any faintest light of hope; like dayspring after Nova-Zembla night? Or is it but blue sulphur-light, and spectres; woe, suspicion, revenge without end? (Carlyle, _The French Revolution_, 1837.)_

– What was it like?

– Dying, you mean?

– No. Living.

– Oh. You must know just as well as I do.

– Do you really think so?

– No, but I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt.

On December nights like this he throws open the window and leans out over the street, listening to the sound of the city. The cold has always suited him. A healthy glow in his skin, his lungs feel bottomless, he feels alive.

– You were a foreigner. People like to mention that, especially these days. You were Mara, the Swiss. (They say, even, that you were a foreigner among the Helvetians.)

– Well, it's not a lie, but it's a partial truth. I was much more than that.

– You travelled the world. You saw London and Edinburgh.

– You realise that there's much more to the world than London and Edinburgh.

– Of course. But it's farther than I've ever been. What was it like?

– Wet.

– I'd like to see Edinburgh. I admire David Hume.

His gaze is sharp. He's brilliant and it shows; he exudes it. Combeferre, who has been called clever himself, feels like a stupid child, averting his eyes.

– But how did you do it? How could you be a scientist and a revolutionary, all at once?

– All good scientists have been revolutionaries.

– Fair point. What I really meant, when I said 'revolutionary', was 'man of the People'.

– Oh. Well, it isn't possible. You're either one, or you're the other.

– But why?

– You ought to know. Either requires total devotion. Tell me, what is most important to you in the world?

– The People.

– Good lad. And would you lay down your life for them?

– I would.

– And would you sacrifice her life, too?

He picks up the cat in the corner, holding the scruff of her neck, maternally. She does not spit or struggle in his grasp, which impresses Combeferre.

– But she's innocent!

– Aren't you, too?

– Yes, but I'm free to choose what I do with my body.

– Are you? Then what on earth are you fighting against?

– Don't, you frustrate me.

He grins unpleasantly. Then Combeferre sees it: not the man of the world, but the man of Paris, of here and now and all of us. He finds he wants to smile, too.

– That's good. Do be honest. I hate when you're obsequious.

It's difficult, though, to be straightforward with your idol.

– Tell me, citizen – what was your name? – yes, well, in any case – why do you seek me out? Why me, when you find me so distasteful?

– To tell the truth – I'm afraid it will sound foolish after what you've just said. 'You're either one, or the other' – that part. But that's just the reason I admire you so much: because you were both.

– Exactly. I was both, at one point or another. Now that I'm in the past tense, you can say, 'Jean-Paul Marat was a celebrated doctor and revolutionary journalist', and you would not be wrong. But never, never at the same time. But I don't like this semantic prattle. You're quite dull, you know, for a rebel.

– But didn't it ever make you sad, having to leave it all behind?

No answer. The doctor is still holding the cat.

– Because that's what really gets to me, when I think about it. It's not that I'm afraid of dying, not for my own sake. I'm not afraid of giving up the sensual pleasures. I'm not afraid of leaving my – my family…

– Liar.

– …or my friends, or my mistresses. But what terrifies me is imagining all the things I'll never know. Or, rather, not being able to imagine, because how can I picture something I've never seen or heard of? I think, if I were to live long and die of old age, about all of the developments I would get to see, new inventions, new theories, new personalities. Do you realise, it is theoretically possible that I might survive into the twentieth century? The twentieth century! It's strange even to think about. What will the world be like, then? I could stick around and find out, if fate were on my side. But I know it won't be possible.

– You realise, also, that I could still be alive today? It would be, as you say, theoretically possible.

Combeferre is taken aback for a moment. No, he hadn't thought of that. Imagine, the frail white-haired creature, all the venom long dried up. Sitting at his hearth, perhaps, smoking his ancient pipe. It was only a few years ago that the widow Évrard died. To think, by some quirk of fate, her husband might have outlived her.

– You'll have to decide whether it's a fair trade: the People's future, for your own.

He might have lived so easily. He could elude the authorities; he had done it before. He survived, if he sometimes seemed but half-alive. He understood persecution; only death had come at last in a friendly guise. He might have lived.

– But that's assuming I'll die. It's not a given.

– I was wondering when you'd realise that.

– I might live to be a hundred, and die a free man.

– Bless.

– And my grandchildren: free citizens. I couldn't bear it any other way. I want to see them.

– Don't be too impatient. There's plenty of work to be done before that.

– Yes. Yes. There will always be work to be done. And I will always be working. Once we have a Republic, once everything is settled –

– I'd recommend you close the window. You'll catch a chill and die before the winter ends.


End file.
